Wrapped like mummies
against the wet (left), crew
men of Mihandust sleep on
a corrugated bed of man
grove poles harvested near
the mouth of Tanzania's Ru
fiji River. To get the poles,
the cutters faced crocodiles,
snakes, and steady rain that
breeds malarial mosquitoes.
"Mold got into my clothes,
my mind, everything," wrote
the author. The crew finally
loaded 10,000 poles, keeping
tally by the 20's with knots
(right). Hauling anchor (be
low), they catch the mon
soon wind, northbound for
the Persian Gulf and home.
Today bureaucracy's restrictions and the
economic pressures of new nations confound
Mihandust's captain and crew.
Issa comprehends the need for change
after all, he installed an engine and is talking
about adding a derrick. But his thinking, like
that of all dhow men, is not attuned to en
gines. The timing of the annual voyages to
and from Africa is fixed by the monsoons.
New harbors in Kuwait, Oman, and else
where will modernize the loading and dis
charge of cargoes. But habits change slowly.
Perhaps this conservatism gives some
small hope for the future of dhows, at least
for a few years more. On riverbanks north
of the gulf, the annual ripening of the dates
begins an ancient cycle that will not suddenly
cease. The great dhow fleets no longer exist,
yet wooden vessels carry on, shuttling busily
from port to port on the winds of the gulf.
On the longer voyages, the good men of
the dhows lead a simple, well-adjusted life.
They do not plan their tomorrows, they de
mand nothing and are awarded little. They
do not concern themselves with what may
happen. And their time-of which they are so
heedless-has almost run out.
As I mourned Mihandust's departure, I
found comfort in the words of dhow regis
trar Ali Surur: "I have known these nakho
das for years. They like it here, and they have
told me they expect to come back again next
year. You will see Mihandust and your friends
again-Inshallah."
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Twilight of the Arab Dhow